It would be ridiculous to deny that the Camorra exists in Naples, but it would be equally absurd to claim that it has the picturesqueness or virility of ancient times. Yet it is dreaded by all—by the Contessa in her boudoir, by the manager of the great trans-oceanic line, by the _ragazzo_ on the street. The inquiry of the traveller reveals little concerning it. One will be confidently told that no such society or sect any longer exists, and with equal certainty that it is an active organization of criminals in close alliance with the government. Then, suddenly, some trifling incident occurs and your eyes are opened to the truth, at first hardly realized, that the crust of modern civilization is, in the case of southern Italy, superimposed upon conditions of life no more enlightened than they were a thousand years ago, and that hatred and distrust of government, ignorance, bigotry, and poverty make it a field fertile for any sort of superstition or belief, be it in the potency of the pulverized bones of young children for rheumatism, the efficacy of a stuffed dove sliding down a wire as a giver of fat harvest, or the deadly power of the Camorra. And where several million people believe in and fear the Camorra, if for no other reason, the Camorra or something akin to it is bound to exist. Before long you will begin to find out things for yourself. You may have your watch filched from your waistcoat pocket, and you may perhaps get it back through the agency of a shabby gentleman—introduced by the hotel porter—who, in spite of his rough exterior and threadbare clothing, proves marvellously skilful in tracing the stolen property—for a consideration. You may observe that sometimes, when you take a cab, a mysterious stranger will spring up beside the driver and accompany you to your destination. This is the “collector” for the Camorra—the parasite that feeds on every petty trade and occupation in the city. For the boatman shares his hire with a man who loiters on the dock; the porter gives up a soldo or two on every job; and the beggar divides with the Camorra the profit from _la misericordia_.[10] Last of all, you may stumble into one of the quarters of Naples where the keeping of order is practically intrusted to the Camorra; where the police do not go, save in squads; and where each householder or dive-keeper pays a weekly tax to the society for its supposed “protection,” part of which goes higher up—to some “_delegato_” or “commissary” of the “P. S.”[11]